Woman Down! Send C*ck!

There are a lot of things I have discovered about myself lately, but perhaps the most fun thing is that I like sex.  Kind of a lot.  I have had an amazing time playing with that knowledge and trying out all the wacky things people do in their 20s -- with the benefit of being in my 40s and generally smarter about taking care of myself.

I've been getting exhausted with play partnering lately, though, and am gradually settling in to looking for something more settled -- with  lots of communication and openness about sex, though.  I'm not willing to compromise on that.  Gradually, my friends-with-benefits are fading away, either through active or passive disengagement.  I'm getting lots more sleep, and I have more energy to focus on "serious" dating prospects.

But it has been a while since sex.  I have gone for (much) longer than this before, but that was when I still had this sense of shame and taboo around the whole thing.  Now that I'm comfortable with it, being without it is much less comfortable.

Another thing I have discovered about myself, though, is that I can be patient about getting what I truly want.  So we wait, watch the snowstorm, write filthy messages in the drifts and watch them get covered up again as the snow continues to fall.

Bearing gifts

Why do men think women want to know what it's like to have a penis?  Here's the latest blast of text messages from The Dong, who has just offered to buy me a strap-on:

You like that idea?
You'd be able to pretend you have a cock.
That's naughty.
And I like it.

In case you're counting, that's four separate texts in a row.  This is actually subdued for The Dong. (Who earned this name by virtue of his most endearing asset.) If you are getting the idea that I am a bit annoyed by all this, you are correct.  The Dong is not a person I would be interested in spending time with if I weren't in the middle of my post-divorce slutty phase.  It is only because I am, as my friend said, "penis shopping," that I am even answering him.  The Dong is only interested in one thing from me as well, but for him that involves this sort of foolishness.

I'm willing to try the strap-on because, A) I've never done it before, B) I don't have to spend any money or time to get the thing, and C) Post-divorce slutty phase.  But I am really not okay with the assumption that I am interested in having a penis.  I'm just fine with my lady bits.  In fact, I am more fine with them than I ever have been. They are lovely and awesome.  Why don't we instead talk about how The Dong can pretend to have a vagina?  And while we're at it (or before we're at it,) let's just drop all references to naughty and dirty where two consenting, grown-ass people are involved.

I am finding that there is a whole lot of childishness in the world of fully sexual adults.

Never Have I Ever

My life now is like one long, drawn-out game of Never Have I Ever, and I am getting wasted.  Never have I ever paid property taxes on a condo I own free and clear.  Never have I ever gone an entire week without shutting the bathroom door.  Never have I ever received payment just for being married once.  Never have I ever left my spouse.  Never have I ever had my heart broken so thoroughly and so well that I had to grow an entirely new one in its place.  Never have I ever given up on a marriage.

It is that last one which still rankles, and will until the end of days. Never have I ever given up.  I got indifferent.  I took for granted.  I hid and stayed silent, but I did not give up.  Now, when it would be in my best interest to give up, I'm not sure how.  I know how to look like it, but the doing of it is difficult.  Never have I ever.

Two weeks post decree, I felt like a half-finished puzzle where the table got shaken and overturned.  I thought a picture was emerging and I had everything at least organized.  Blue with blue. Red with red.  Yellow with yellow.  But it wasn't organized and there was that same helpless, irrational rage you feel when you're 5 years old and all your toys are gone for no reason.  I didn't understand why everything was different all of the sudden.  I had been preparing for months.  I was ready.  Who the fuck turned over the table in the middle of the night? And changed out all the pieces? And took the picture away?

And this, I realize, is where I am really Mapless.  It's not my relationship with him, it's my relationship with myself.  Never have I ever lived completely on my own as an adult, and that's the truth.  I look at my profiles on dating sites and wonder who it is I am writing about.  Some woman half in and half out of a door.  I can identify part of her as me, but the rest is obscured.

Meanwhile, I am slowly ticking off milestones in my ongoing game of Never Have I Ever.  I hope that I am the one of us having the most outrageous sex.  Because never have I ever been curious and unashamed . . .

Episode IV: The Conclusion

Want to hear about my happy ending?

Well, like me, you're going to keep wanting.

He cancelled. Said he had a "work-related emergency" and had to fly back to California. What a waste of a pedicure and bikini wax. And now I'm supposed the get back on the horse that I never even got to ride in the first place?

Well, at least I got to feel sexy and desirable for a minute. That was fun. And I practiced some new writing techniques. Now, to the stables!

Episode III: Email Seduction

He's not the most good-looking guy, and certainly doesn't have that David Tennant, skinny-Euro thing I like.  But I'm buying condoms and waxing my crotch because the boy can write.  He has got this subtle email seduction thing right down to the ground.  If the live meeting is half as good as the email exchange, I may lose my ability to speak.

I wonder if I'm being a fool, falling for lines that, when analysed, aren't really all that creative.  But he's the first person who has bothered to write these lines to me.  I have decided the enjoy the sexy little butterflies I get when I read his messages.  I have decided to take this for what it is.  A fun night, where I am an alluring woman and he is an avid suitor.  And maybe we both get our rocks polished, or whatever the kids are saying these days.

As a side benefit, I'm getting better at sexy writing.  I think this has been lacking in many of my attempts at fiction, so now that I have a bit more practice, I think I'll be able to create better characters.  I'm certainly more creative with the double entendres -- they aren't all penis-shaped anymore.  I've just sent off a message making good use of the phrase "come to you," if I do say so myself.

Can't wait for the reply.  I've got rocks to polish.

Episode II: Bikini Wax

I wanted to see Marie. Marie shares my indifference to makeup and general disdain for the excesses of the beauty industry. Marie has also been divorced. She has been through the "first sex after" thing, and could maybe help me understand it all.

Marie was not working, so I went to Rana. Rana's appeal was that I didn't know her very well. Also, being European, I thought maybe she would be supportive of an adult woman who still wanted to keep some pubic hair.

Just as I expected, Rana worked quickly, efficiently -- I hardly thought about the fact that a relative stranger was looking at a part of my body that I rarely looked at. I was telling her about my "sex date" and letting her talk me into a French bikini with a little off the top, rather than the very modest bikini wax I had planned.

I told her, "Nothing off the labia," but when she gave me the mirror, I saw that half my outer labia was raw, red, and stripped of hair.

"My god," I said, "that looks so weird!"

Rana transformed into the Angry Romanian.  She snapped off her gloves.  "You mean 'clean.'  'Clean' is the word you're looking for." She gave me curt instructions for caring for my skin then left the room so I could dress.

I looked again at my half-naked labia.  Weird.  Weird is what I meant.

Sex Date Chronicles, Episode I: The Condom Incident

I thought I should bring condoms, since I couldn't guarantee he would have them.  I went to the CVS when I was sure to have two or three other things to buy, and late enough in the afternoon that the Curious Nona of the self-checkout wasn't working.

After a bit of confusion in the family planning aisle, (what do they mean, "pleasant scent?") I settled on a small packet of three condoms, tucked it behind my other purchases, and headed to the self-checkout.

Now, I know I have nothing to be ashamed of.  I'm a grown-ass woman in my 40s.  I have sex. (Or, rather, I want to.) And I am being responsible about it.  This should be the opposite of embarrassing.  This should give me the same feeling as when I bring my own bags to the grocery.  But, since this country got the Puritans and the Tea Party, I am trying to be discreet about the whole thing.  So, I slip up to a self-checkout station, out of notice of the (male) self-checkout minder.  I quickly scan the condoms and drop them into a bag.  Scot free!

Until the assistance light starts flashing, telling me the coupon box is full.  Coupon box? I didn't use a coupon.  I look around, stuff some loose papers down into the coupon box.  The light still flashes. I have to ask the minder.  And, of course, as soon as he steps over, the light stops flashing, and the self-checkout is sweetly ready to serve me.  I say a polite thank you and start to scan my other items.

"Did it scan what's in the bag?" the minder says.

"Huh?"

Before I can think, the minder reaches into my bag and pulls out the condoms.  Which didn't, in fact, scan.  Now I'm a potential thief.  I grab them out of his hand.  Snatch them, more like.  (Hee hee.  "Snatch.") "I'll do it," I say, in exactly the same tone and volume my 3-year-old nephew used when talking about his shoes.

Mortified, but trying my best to look like some confident, sex-positive uber-MILF, I complete my purchase and scuttle out the door.